Chapter 73 – Moment in the Sand
The City of Sands shimmered beneath the moon like a bowl of molten glass.
Even at night, heat clung to the air — a lazy, shimmering haze that carried the smell of roasted spice, lamp-oil, and the salt of sweat.
John and Tamara walked shoulder to shoulder through the merchant quarter. The streets were quieter now; most stalls had closed, the last vendors dragging shutters down and counting coins by lanternlight. Somewhere far off, someone played a slow tune on a reed pipe, and the sound slipped between alleys like a drifting ghost.
They had just eaten — a small tavern that smelled of mint and smoke — and for once, neither of them was thinking about cultivation, contracts, or cores. It was one of their rare evenings where the world felt human again.
Tamara tilted her head toward the sky, her cloak brushing his arm. "You ever notice," she said softly, "how the sand glows under moonlight? It looks clean. Like it hasn't killed anyone."
John smiled faintly. "You always say cheerful things after dinner."
She glanced at him, her lips tugging into half a smirk. "It's the wine."
They walked in silence for a stretch, the rhythm of their boots falling into sync. The faint breeze carried her perfume — jasmine mixed with desert dust. John didn't say it aloud, but the quiet felt right. Familiar.
Then Tamara slowed. The humor in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something heavier.
"John," she said after a pause. "There's something I haven't told you."
He looked at her. "You don't owe me an explanation for your past."
"It's not about owing." She stared down the road where the lamps bent the darkness into ribbons of gold. "It's about trust. You've seen enough of my present — maybe you should know where I came from."
John said nothing.
Tamara drew a quiet breath. "I was born far from here… in the Kingdom of R—"
A scream tore through the night.
It wasn't close, but it was sharp enough to make the air flinch.
Both of them turned.
Alaric's voice cracked through John's mind like static. "Dark energy. Nearby. Move now."
John's expression hardened. He was already running before Tamara's blades even left their sheaths.
The alley they turned into was narrow — stone walls close enough to scrape shoulders, lanterns swinging wildly from the sudden wind that followed them. The air smelled wrong: burned incense, copper, and something faintly sweet beneath it.
Another scream, shorter, strangled halfway.
It came from a squat building wedged between two storage houses, its wooden door half-ajar and light flickering through the cracks.
John hit the door with his shoulder. The frame splintered, swinging open into chaos.
Inside — heat. Light. Chanting.
A circle of violet fire burned across the floor, its edges lined with wet symbols that hissed as if alive. Four figures in black robes stood around it, their hands weaving gestures too fast to follow.
At the circle's center knelt a girl. Young. Barefoot. Eyes wide with animal terror.
"Stop!" John's voice cut through the chant.
One of the robed men flinched. Another snarled something guttural — a word that made the fire flare.
The sigil flashed white. A wind slammed outward. John raised an arm against it, teeth gritting as essence rippled across his skin.
The girl vanished.
She and one of the chanters were simply gone — sucked into the burning light as though the floor had swallowed them whole.
The remaining three froze when the glow died down.
They turned toward John.
He saw it then — not madness, not confusion — recognition.
"Caster," one whispered. The word came out like a prayer.
Then, in eerie unison, all three reached into their sleeves.
"Wait—!"
They bit down.
A wet crack. The smell of sulfur burst into the room.
Their bodies seized, then ignited in black-violet fire. The flame ate sound as it burned — no screams, just the hiss of essence turning to nothing. When it faded, only three piles of ash remained, each shaped like a kneeling figure. In the middle of each pile glowed a smaller sigil, still pulsing faintly.
Tamara burst in behind him, blades drawn. "John—!" She froze when she saw the floor. "What in the Saints' name—"
"They killed themselves," he said quietly.
He crouched by the nearest pile, the heat still radiating through his boots. The sigil was pulsing in rhythm — almost like a heartbeat.
Alaric's voice was grim. "Spatial ritual. Anchored by essence sacrifice. It's not human work."
John's eyes narrowed. "Tamara," he said. "Go get Dokabas. Now."
She didn't argue. She sheathed her blades and sprinted out the door.
John stayed, studying the circle. The light rippled whenever he breathed. He could feel it — space folded unnaturally thin, reality stitched and stretched like skin pulled too tight.
He reached a hand toward the edge of the sigil. The air distorted, humming against his fingers.
Something in that hum almost looked back.
He pulled away.
Minutes passed before the heavy footfalls of armored boots echoed through the alley. Tamara returned — and behind her, like a shadow given form, came Dokabas.
Even the flickering violet light bent away from him.
He stepped inside, gaze moving once over the room. "What happened here."
John stood. "Four men. They were performing a teleportation ritual. One escaped with the girl. The rest committed suicide."
Dokabas's face didn't change, but his aura stirred — that silent weight that made the air feel thicker. He knelt by the circle, eyes tracing the burned lines.
"This is no common spell." His voice was deep, steady, but edged with something darker. "Space-folding. Gravity inversion. They created a fixed anchor — and they're moving people through it."
He touched the outer ring without flinching. The light bent around his hand. "You see this line? It channels life essence through a purity tether. Virgin blood. That's why it burns like that."
Tamara's jaw tightened. "So… sacrifices."
"More than that," Dokabas said. "It's fuel." He stood. "The Dark Masters are building something and using Old magic. City-scale, maybe larger. They've been hiding the gateways under homes like this — using the teleportation to move unseen."
John felt a cold prickle crawl along his spine. "That's why no one's found them."
Dokabas nodded once. "They vanish the moment anyone gets close. No trace, no body."
He turned toward John, his expression unreadable. "Listen to me carefully. You tell no one what you saw here. Not your team. Not the Association. Not even Seraphine. Understood?"
John met his eyes. "Understood."
"Good." The guardian's voice softened, just barely. "You did the right thing calling me. I'll handle the rest."
He raised his hand. A circle of golden light spread across the floor, smothering the violet glow. The pressure lifted from John's chest, replaced by the faint scent of ozone and dust.
When the light faded, Dokabas straightened, the fire in his armor dimming. "Go. Both of you. Rest while you can."
John hesitated. "You think this is connected to the disappearances?"
"It's definitely connected." Dokabas looked back at the ash.
Then he turned away, kneeling once more, tracing counter-runes in the stone. His voice followed them as they stepped out the door.
"Keep your light guarded, John."
The city had grown quieter. The night wind hissed through alleys, carrying the sound of distant chimes.
Tamara walked beside him, her hood pulled low. The moonlight turned the sand at their feet silver.
Neither spoke for a long while.
When they reached the main street, Tamara finally said, "About what I was trying to tell you—"
John shook his head. "Not now let's talk about it later."
She nodded. The look in her eyes said she was grateful he didn't press.
They crossed the market square. A few lanterns still burned, their flames bending in the wind. Somewhere, a merchant rolled his cart across the cobbles, wheels creaking.
John couldn't shake the smell of burned flesh from his hands. Even washing them in the fountain hadn't helped. It wasn't on his skin — it was in his mind.
Alaric's voice stirred quietly. "That circle was a gateway. One of many."
"I figured."
"The energy felt old. Patterned. Someone's binding the city with them."
"Yes. But not in the way you think. They're building something, John. A network. And tonight you stepped on one of its veins."
John didn't answer. The moon hung low now, heavy over the dunes, as if listening.
By the time they reached the mansion gates, dawn was already beginning to stain the horizon. The guards at the door were half asleep. Ember padded up from the courtyard, sensing their moods, his fur dim and muted.
Tamara paused at the steps. "You think Dokabas can handle it?"
"If he can't," John said, "no one can."
They walked inside together. The corridors were dark, still, the air heavy with the scent of cooling stone.
At his door, John stopped. Tamara turned toward hers just beside it. Their eyes met, the silence between them thick with everything unsaid — her unfinished confession, his unasked questions, the memory of ash and violet light.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
"Goodnight."
She lingered a heartbeat, then went inside.
John waited until her door closed before he stepped into his own room. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands.
The burns on his knuckles from the sigil's heat had already faded — but the memory hadn't. He could still see those men turning to fire, the way the symbols pulsed like living things.
Outside, the wind shifted. The lamps flickered.
Somewhere under the streets, in the tunnels where light never reached, another sigil flared faintly to life — unseen, unanswered — and the ground itself seemed to whisper.
The door has opened.